


It isn't your Fault

by Tales_Unique



Series: Tales of Death [2]
Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Darksiders - Freeform, Darksiders Imagine, Darksiders Imagines, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 11:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16853200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tales_Unique/pseuds/Tales_Unique





	It isn't your Fault

One would never expect it, but there’s often a moment of silence after a storm. The briefest of lulls that lingers between the roars of violence. That’s where she finds herself, the Mortal; fixed between two great, deafening things that threaten to trap her under their weight. On one side is what has happened and on the other is what will happen, both which now terrify her beyond reproach.

She never meant for it to happen, and even now as the adrenaline courses through her veins, as her fingers twitch with a charge that no one can see, she  _doesn’t mean any of it_.

Once bright eyes drop to the form hunched over at the foot of a small rock fall, now bloodshot and glossy with the onset of tears. Her heart thrums like a hummingbird against her chest, her ribs ache with the effort of harsh, panting breaths, her lungs on fire. Each movement a torture in the wake of what she’s done. She takes a shaking step forward but catches herself, whimpering and swallowing thickly; he won’t want her near him. She’s a threat, an unpredictable threat, which has no place by his side any longer.

There are no words, how could there be? Words are what caused this. Words followed by emotion, followed by action— action she didn’t think existed for her, until now. Chaotic thoughts eat at her brain, churning and digesting it, until she’s no more than a singular, reoccurring thought; run.

Run, run,  _run_ ,  ** _run_** — before he even has the chance to call for her to remain she’s struggling back, trips on her own feet in her haste and falls to the ground with an anguished cry. Tears fall freely now and she’s babbling apologies, garbled and confused, while she attempts to get to her feet once more. Now successful she wobbles the first few steps towards a destination unknown, quickly breaks into a run, and then a sprint. Driving herself harder and harder, faster and faster, until the sights are no more than blurs and the winds flies at her face so hard it feels like blades at her cheeks.

Still she flees ever onward, terrified of a monster she can’t outrun; terrified of the monster that is  _herself.  
_In the midst of the activity, he remains.  **Death**  remains. Still and wary, he raises his head all too late to see her form as it retreats from view. He underestimates her, at every turn, and now it comes to punish him for his ignorance in the guise of her wrath. Wrath that was aimed at him. He can’t even remember what it was he faulted her for, not at first, but he’s certainly aware that it was his words that were the trigger for a catalyst many months in the making, nurtured to breaking point by his very own hand.

Limbs heavy as he hauls himself to his feet, Death stares at the ruin that lingers in the air. The dust settles slowly, ash falls like snow, and yet he sees her, plainly as if she were  **still**  there. The startled look on her face is clear in his minds eye, the feeling of energy cast at him like a torrent still prickles at his skin. Witches blood, he wagers, and he’s annoyed at himself for not having had the inkling to believe the stories she would tell, of happenings before the world was brought to its knees and ravaged by Heaven and Hell alike. They are small, seemingly insignificant, but now? Perhaps there were threads of truth after all. Talk of supernatural happenings and witchcraft were nothing more than an idle conversation to the Horseman, one he had regretted in indulging up to this point.

Ah, he realizes now as he summons Despair and mounts the nag; **that** was the source of the argument. How he never  **believes**  her, not truly anyway. He spurs his steed into action, follows her trail, eyes narrow and hard in their stare. He’s frustrated with himself for being so blind, for allowing this to happen. If she is hurt because of this, because of  **him** , he— the thought stops abruptly, gives way to emotion. A tightening in his chest. A pit forms in his stomach.

This unsettles him further and he urges Despair on harder, the horse braying in contention at such handling. Death ignores him, his focus captured entirely on the situation at hand. She’s so profoundly affected him in their time together that he’s compelled to seek her out.

Night is close when he finally catches up to her. She’s hunched over the gnarled and twisted trunk of a dead tree, one in a sea of many others, and he can hear the sounds of her laboured breath intermittent amidst her crying. He dismounts Despair and send the nag away in a blaze of blue fire, his steps are quiet as he treads carefully over to her.

He doesn’t want to risk another episode, a dull ache having settled in his ribs from the force of her earlier rage. With careful consideration he calls out her name, pauses in his step when she looks up at him with fear in her gaze. Her lower lip quivers as the remnants of tears set on her flushed cheeks. There are words falling shakily from her lips, but she speaks so quickly and quietly that he can’t make out what she’s saying, not over the rise of the wind and the light patter of rain.

The storm has been rolling along behind them since they started their ride and Death had hoped to find somewhere more suitable to shelter them for the night but as he steps closer to her, watching as the tears mingle with small droplets of rain on her cheeks, he thinks that no longer the case.

“Death,” she whimpers, her shaking hand rising in an effort to stop his advance, but it fails and he continues until he’s stood in front of her. She hangs her head in shame, her body shakes with the effort it takes to keep her fears from spilling, but he makes it all the harder to keep them at bay when he places a hand upon her head, fingers lightly threading in her hair. The gentle grip guides her head until she feels her forehead pressed again the cool skin of his torso, eyes widening until her face contorts with emotion and her chest heaves with her sobs. They stand there, the rain falls in a light mist but neither care; he’s too concerned with her safety, while she’s too busy crying out the emotion that swells within her. He mutters quietly that she did nothing wrong and dares to push her closer to him, her warmth welcomed. It’s uncertain whether she hears him at first, but when her crying slows and her breathing evens out he feels as though he’s reached her, his hand gentle stroking the top of her head while his free hand comes to rest on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. It’s the closest he’s been to another in this fashion for a long time and he enjoys it more than he’d care to admit at that point.

Perhaps more could come of this, he wonders, as he keeps her close, shielding her from the rain, but it matters not in that moment.


End file.
